


Syncopation

by idlyby



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Denial, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Longing, M/M, Non-Graphic Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 20:08:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idlyby/pseuds/idlyby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas tilts his head questioningly and his eyes are wide, scared. Searching. They’ve been here before a hundred times over, always the same dance of push-and-pull, always drifting closer before they spring apart again, and Dean wonders if he even cares anymore, or if the problem is that he cares too much.</p><p>Nothing’s actually changed. For the past few years he and Cas have been fighting the same battles, mourning the same losses, breathing the same air.</p><p>Destiel in slow, small sips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Syncopation

**Author's Note:**

> Syncopation: "a disturbance or interruption of the regular flow of rhythm": a "placement of rhythmic stresses or accents where they wouldn't normally occur."

**Cleveland**

Dean grunts and slides the knife home between the demon’s ribs. There’s nothing as satisfying as the weight of a body dragging the blade down, the shredding of delicate internal organs, the electricity that shudders up his arm when the body jerks with the death throes of whatever asshole he’s speared. He twists and rams the blade deeper and there’s a moment, there’s always a moment, when he remembers skewering Ruby. One of his finer hours, he thinks, and probably what Sam calls dramatic irony. Since then killing demons has become routine, but that – that’s one of those kills you’ll never forget.

The body jerks so hard Dean’s arm almost snaps, and he pushes back until he meets spine, then yanks the blade free. The body crumples, still sparking, and Dean’s almost too slow to catch the fist flying at his head.

As he scrambles to recover his balance, Dean lets himself hate whoever thought attacking a whole damn warehouse full of demons would be a good idea. He can almost pretend it wasn’t _his_ idea – it’s stupid enough Sammy might have come up with it and thought he was especially intelligent, or better still, it’s one of those plans Cas might have brought up with a hasty _it will be fine, Dean, I can smite them all just by looking at them_ tacked on to the end. But then there’s five and a half feet of black leather and blonde hair flying at him, and it’s a damn shame demons are allowed to pick smoking hot vessels.

He’s a second too slow to use her size against her, and his vision goes dark for a minute when his head cracks against the concrete. He still has the knife, though; it’s digging into his hip and it’s not hard to shift his weight and flip them both over to press the knife to her throat.

Under normal circumstances he might be mourning the loss of such a hot body, but he has more pressing concerns.

“How many of you are there?”

She spits in his face, laughing, and he presses hard enough on the blade to nick her throat. The quick flare of light that courses through her is bright enough that he can see his own face reflected in her flat, black eyes. Dean grits his teeth and digs the blade in harder, and reminds himself that the light is from her flickering spirit, not Hellfire. When he closes his eyes and feels her writhing under him he’s back in the pit again – she even smells like it – so he forces his eyes wide open.

“How _many?_ ”

“They’ll welcome me back to Hell like a hero, Dean Winchester.”

“Right. Hero.”

She must be top bitch here. Now that he thinks about it he’s seen her face before, but she’s much less impressive on her back with bloody temples and a very human pulse flickering in the paper-thin skin at her throat. With her raspy voice he can’t decide if she sounds more like a porn star or a chain smoker, but everything about her makes his skin crawl.

She laughs again and curls her fingers around his wrists. “They’re coming for you, Dean, the rest of them. Thanks to your show here, even Crowley will know where you are. You’re not exactly covering your tracks.”

“I’d be more worried about yourself, there, sweetheart.”

“Why, because you have your boyfriend and the moose to avenge you?”

She beams around her snarl and he lifts the knife to plunge it into her heart. She takes advantage of his distraction to flip over to straddle his waist and he barely ducks out of the way in time to miss the energy building at the tips of her fingers. Behind him the wall cracks apart. Dean swears violently and buries the blade in her breast, and she shudders on top of him until her body slumps forward suddenly, still warm.

Swearing again, he shoves the body to the floor and stands, wiping the knife on his jeans. His neck and skull are sore when he tries to glance around, and he’ll have to have Sam check him for a concussion later.  Slowly he lifts his head, wincing at the sound of vertebrae popping back into place, and he can’t find Sam anywhere in the litter of bodies. Castiel is here, though, standing over a corpse, and staring at Dean like he’s just seen a miracle.

“You okay?” Dean calls. By now he’s gotten used to the staring and the fussing – must be an angel thing – but Cas is really, _really_ pale under the blood on his face and he’s standing like he’s not all the way steady on his feet.

“You’re hurt, Dean.”

Gingerly he touches the back of his head, and his hair is sticky with blood. He doesn’t feel anything, but that could be the adrenaline. “I’m fine.”

In the blink of an eye Cas is one step away, catching Dean by the collar and pulling him in until their faces are inches apart. His eyes are wide, scared, searching. Dean tries not to say anything about personal space because they’ve been over this too much. He tries even harder not to notice – Damn. “Cas, I’m _fine_.” He clears his throat roughly.

Cas worries even more than Sam. Sometimes it’s all Dean can do not to murder both of them.

“Let me see.” With gentle hands Cas turns Dean’s head to the side and cradles the back of his skull, tangling his fingers softly in blood-caked hair.

“Damn it, Cas, I said” –

“You’re fine,” Cas says flatly. “I know.” He smells like smoke and grease and someone else’s blood, and under all that a bit like the Impala. He’s so close Dean could count his eyelashes. If, you know, that were his thing. Even though every instinct is telling him to pull away, Dean doesn’t, because Cas is a freaking angel and might backfire, or something.

“Maybe we should get out of here,” he hedges.

“They are all dead. I made sure of it.”

Dean hisses when Cas’s fingers graze the cut. Now that he can feel it, _he feels it_. “That’s” –

“If you would just hold still.” But Cas’s voice is soft, even if his words aren’t. He brushes his thumb over the spot again and it doesn’t hurt now.

The staring doesn’t stop and it’s even more disconcerting this close up.

“I guess not all faith healers are crap, then,” Dean says, because if he doesn’t say something he thinks this might count as indecent.

“I am no faith healer, Dean.” But Cas is smiling a little, still not-quite stroking the nape of Dean’s neck.

“Look,” Dean says, just a little desperately, but the sound of footsteps saves him from having to finish his sentence. Cas drops his hand like he’s done something guilty, but it’s the sad state of affairs that there’s nothing weird about the way he’s still staring at Dean.

“You guys all right?” Sam sounds a little breathless.

“We are fine,” Cas says, with another almost-smile.

Sam nods, wiping his hands on his jeans. It’s a good thing they’ve already booked the motel; no receptionist would let the three of them in looking like they do now, all bloodstained and sweaty. “I didn’t see anyone else.”

“We got them all.” Cas glances around the room and stares for a long time at the last body.

“All of them _here_ ,” Dean grumbles.

Sam looks at him sharply.

“She said there are more of them.”

“We knew that.” Sam frowns at him like he’s not speaking English, and Dean bites back a snarl. “That’s what we’re here for. You didn’t get anything else out of her, did you?”

That her weight squarely on his hips had been sickening, that he’d hated her fingerprints on his skin, that ganking her and every other son of a bitch in the building had been a damn relief compared to all the mapping and planning and arguing they’ve been doing the past few weeks. He shoves the knife into the waistband of his jeans and says the first thing he can really remember. It’s not like they talked long. “Crowley’s after us.”

“It’s true we’re not really covering our tracks.” Sam sighs and looks pointedly at Dean, who looks away and reminds him that no one had a better idea.

“We should leave,” Castiel says, and brings them both back to reality for a second too long. “It might not be safe here much longer, if Crowley is coming.” Dean would so much rather be fighting with Sam than have the king of Hell and the rest of his black-eyed bastards on their ass.

They drive back to the motel in silence that makes the back of Dean’s neck prickle uncomfortably. In the seat next to him Sam keeps staring when he thinks Dean’s not looking, and it’s a damn relief when they stop outside the shitty motel. Cas stands aside to let Dean through the door ahead of him, and this has to stop sometime. Dean’s just too tired to argue now. He throws his jacket down on the twin bed and tells Sam he can take the queen, even though it’s not their usual arrangement. Sometimes Cas slips under the covers with him, and Dean doesn’t think he could stomach that tonight when his head is throbbing so hard he’s going to be sick.

They don’t say anything, but Sam and Cas have a way of looking at each other and then at him that makes him feel like they’re pulling him apart layer by layer and seeing things they’re never supposed to.

***

**Indianapolis**

It’s a sign of how over-tired they are that none of them expected the ambush outside Indianapolis. Dean barely manages to skewer some asshole in time to keep him from running through Cas with an angel blade, and _how the hell_ do they have angel blades now? Sam wrestles one of them to the ground and they tie him up on a barstool in the empty pub they’ve completely trashed.

Cas tries to trace the demon trap with fingers that tremble until Dean takes pity on him and finishes the circle.

Sam relaxes the blade at the demon’s throat as soon as the trap is done, and stands aside. Dean realizes they expect him to do this, and his stomach tightens with a weird mix of pride and anger. He lets Sam pass him the blade, and spins the point of it idly on his finger, trying to center himself on the almost-painful pinprick. Wordlessly Castiel hands him a bottle of Holy Water, and Dean takes a deep breath.

“We could do this the easy way or the hard way.”

The demon sneers and Dean dips the knife in the Holy Water like a brush in paint, working his canvas with steady hands while Sam asks the questions. He’s almost deaf to the shrieking under his hands if only because Cas is watching him again, dissecting every mechanical twist of Dean’s wrist, and Dean hates working with an audience. It reminds him too much of Alistair, but Alistair never looked at him like _that_.

They don’t get much, but it’s not for a lack of trying. By the end the demon’s innards are as exposed as the few truths he was able to rasp out, and all they know is that Crowley’s not as interested in the hideout they’re looking for as he is in them. By the sound of it he has another job for them, and there’s no way it’s a pleasant one.

Dean fumbles his way through the exorcism and Sam ends the poor bastard’s life quickly. It’s not fast enough to stop him from sighing an agonized, breathless gurgle, and there’s something like gratitude in his eyes. When Dean can’t stop staring at the body, Cas puts an arm around him and leads him out over a litter of dead bodies and slick pools of blood.

The night air is bracingly cold. Sam drives, and Cas bundles Dean into the back seat to sit so close to him their shoulders brush. Dean is vaguely aware that he should be protesting that they’re babying him, but he’s afraid if he so much as opens his mouth one of them will apologize. He doesn’t want their apologies. They have a job to do.

So he lets Cas press in too close for the rest of the drive, and when they finally get to a motel he locks himself in the bathroom to scrub his hands so hard the only blood left is his own, because what else can he do?

“I never thanked you for saving me,” Cas says, when Dean comes back out.

Dean frowns at him because his voice sounds off. He doesn’t think he can stand it if Cas is shaken up after what just happened.

“No worries.” If they were thanking each other for everything now, Dean would spend then next year trying to recognize every debt Cas could hold against him. It’s a lot easier just to pay them back quietly when the opportunity presents itself.

“It meant a lot, considering.”

“Considering?”

Cas is looking at him with his head cocked to one side like he’s trying to read between the lines on Dean’s face, or impress on him some deep knowledge he could otherwise only communicate in Enochian.

Considering what? God knows there’s a thousand tiny crimes they could be holding against each other, but that’s never been how it is between them. Cas should know by now there’s no need for apologies, even though he takes advantage of every opportunity to seek forgiveness.

“That’s what friends are for, man,” Dean says finally, and Cas’s smile doesn’t all the way reach his eyes. Sam comes back with carryout, and they let the subject drop.

***

**Memphis**

This isn’t what Dean remembers dying feeling like. It’s supposed to be quick, almost painless – the rapport of a gun or the searing pressure of teeth and claws slicing soft skin and then it’s _over_ , a relief – much better than staying alive, at the very least. But by all counts, Dean is pretty sure he’s dying. The demon’s mouth is hard against his, teeth and tongues, and she tastes like blood. She’s laughing as she digs her nails into his scalp and holds him to her even though his lungs are screaming for oxygen and the world around them is burning. Probably when it’s over he’ll reconsider but right now it’s obvious there’s nothing worse than the way she’s licking his teeth, the leg she has rammed between his. She has him pinned to the wall with her hips and with the hand that’s not sliding down his collarbone and under his shirt she’s running _his_ knife in exquisite patterns over _his_ throat and chest.

It’s hard to say where he went wrong. He has a hard time blaming himself for looking up when Sam screamed from somewhere down the hall. Where’s Sam now? Why isn’t he here, fighting, rescuing? When he’d pressed the flashlight into Dean’s hand before they’d run into the building he’d said, “I’ve got your back, man.”

She’s working some kind of magic on him. He’s painfully aware of his heart burning to a halt in his ribcage – it’s a feeling he knows only too well – and his blood feels thick and sluggish. It’s almost like he can feel her spell oozing into him everywhere their bodies touch and it’s awful.

The world is going black around the edges but there’s a sudden flare of light and the pressure’s gone. Dean sucks in air like he’s drowning, and the light is so brilliant he’s almost completely blind, but he’s faintly aware of narrowed blue eyes and a pink mouth turned down in a jagged frown. Soft hands are rolling him over and he can’t breathe again for the pain. The bitch must have trained in the pit. She was very thorough.

Sometimes he still has nightmares about the chaos of the old house burning down. Sometimes he still has nightmares about Sam spreading his arms wide like he’s about to fly.

They’re better than the dreams about Hell. He can still smell burning flesh and boiling blood. He can still feel pulsing organs and screaming souls warm under his hands. The memory is burned into his skin like a new set of fingerprints.

He is aware of being carried over a great distance. His body sparks and crackles with pain, and he doesn’t know if that’s real, or if it’s dream. Sam and Cas are talking in low voices. At least Sam made it out okay.

When he wakes up he’s lying on such a soft surface he wonders if he did something right and managed to land in Heaven this time. But dying doesn’t hurt this much, he reminds himself, and every nerve in his body is still raw.

Soft hands cup his cheeks and he’s flooded with warmth like hot soup or good whisky.

“Dean?”

“You’re a goddamn angel, Cas.” At least that’s what he thinks he says. He’s not-quite-choking on his own tongue.

Cas’s laugh has a desperate edge to it.

Dean tries to open his eyes. The world is still on fire in a blaze of white walls and sterile curtains and Cas’s gaze like an x-ray boring into him.

“Where are we?”

“Sam caved and found a nice hotel.” Cas doesn’t even pretend to sound calm, and Dean closes his eyes again so the angel won’t see how anxious his terror is making Dean. The three of them have an unspoken contract to put on brave faces for each other. If Cas can’t now, it must be bad.

“You all right?” he says roughly. His throat feels like he’s swallowed broken glass.

It’s the gentlest, most chaste kiss he’s ever been on the receiving end of. Cas’s lips barely brush his but it’s enough for Dean to be aware of chapped skin, sweet breath, and the way Cas’s whole body shakes with his heartbeat. Dean thinks he might have stopped breathing. He tells himself he would push Cas away if he had the strength, maybe shove until Cas is backed up into a wall, and –

But all he does is shudder and feel like death warmed over, and when Cas pulls away Dean aches for reasons he can’t name. Cas kisses him again and Dean exhales raggedly into his mouth, his hands coming up to rest loosely on Cas’s shoulders. He doesn’t push him away, or pull him closer. He couldn’t if he wanted to. Cas smoothes his thumb down the column of Dean’s throat and freezes when he grazes a cut and Dean hisses.

A key rattles in the door and Cas sits up like he’s been burned, but doesn’t let go of Dean’s hand. Dean doesn’t know when he started holding it. Sam bursts in, his long frame taut with nervous energy, and when he’s put down the bag of groceries Dean’s bed is the first place he looks. His face is pinched with worry, and Dean forgets Cas long enough to scan Sam’s tired grey face, the bruising on his neck and jaw, the long gash down one cheekbone.

“I’m okay, Sammy,” he says, when Sam doesn’t look away.

“Me, too.” Sam clears his throat and glances wildly at Cas.

“We’re all okay,” Cas says, and he would sound serene if he weren’t clutching Dean’s fingers in a death grip.

It is a quiet night.

***

**Salt Lake City**

Dean usually hates it when Sam gets like this, all fussy and overprotective, always hovering like Dean’s about to get himself killed the moment Sam looks away. He doesn’t mind it so much now, though, because it’s an excuse to avoid being alone with Cas. He throws himself into research and planning with so much gusto that Sam’s eyes narrow suspiciously, but it’s not enough just keeping his hands busy.

He can’t shake the weird heat in his belly when he thinks about it – and he can’t really stop thinking about it. During the day he can find a thousand distractions as long as Cas isn’t looking at him too hard, but at night he thinks _these_ dreams might be even worse than the nightmares.

The kiss plays over and over again in his head on repeat. He tastes Cas in his dreams.

There’s nothing normal about this. There’s _never_ been anything normal about them, but they used to have a delicate balance going. One of them fucked up, and a little voice in the back of his head says it wasn’t Cas. He tries not to think too hard about that.

They drive for days. Sometimes Cas rides with them. Usually he doesn’t. Sam asks the first time, but after that doesn’t say anything when Dean completely disregards the chirpy voice on Sam’s GPS and takes back roads that make the trip longer. Baby rumbling smoothly under his touch is the only constant, the only thing that makes sense right now. When they stop to investigate and Cas is there and they have to act like nothing’s changed, it’s awful.

It’s four in the morning, and Dean’s the only one still sitting up in the bar just outside Salt Lake City. The bartender’s half asleep in the back room. When the door opens Dean doesn’t have to turn around to know who’s blowing in with the cold and the rain.

“Hey, Cas.”

“When Sam said you’d been here I assumed you would have left with a girl by now.”

Dean snorts and doesn’t look at Cas when the angel takes the stool next to him.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Here and there.” Cas folds hands on the bar and stares down at them, tight-lipped. “It seemed like you needed time to yourself.”

Something wrenches in Dean’s gut. He drains the rest of his drink for something to do with his hands.

“Sam says” – Dean opens his mouth to be furious that Cas talked to Sam about this – “that I owe you an apology.” And Dean slams his glass down hard.

“You _don’t_.”

It’s something they’ve talked about before, explicitly and otherwise, but what it boils down to is that they don’t do the apology thing. Cas meant well. He always means well. He almost says _that’s what friends are for_ again, but this isn’t about friendship.

“I do.” Cas turns to him, his face earnest, and Dean has to force himself not to look away. “I acted irrationally in a moment of panic. I misjudged you and made you uncomfortable. If you want to we can forget it even happened.” His cheeks are pink.

“No.”

Cas tilts his head questioningly and his eyes are wide, scared. Searching. They’ve been here before a hundred times over, always the same dance of push-and-pull, always drifting closer before they spring apart again, and Dean wonders if he even cares anymore, or if the problem is that he cares too much.

“I don’t want to forget.”

“Why not?”

Cas’s hair is plastered to his forehead in the front from the rain, sticking out like a spikey halo in the back. His coat is sticking to his clothes and Dean wonders if he walked here. When he realizes how much he’s missed Cas it’s like someone’s punched him in the lungs.

“The last demon in Cleveland” –

“The pretty one?”

Dean frowns. “She said you were my boyfriend.”

Cas frowns back. “Demons say all sorts of things to get under your skin. You know that.”

That’s not what he means. Dean pours himself more scotch to fill the silence. It’s not just that he’s not good with words, it’s that he doesn’t know what there is to say. It’s hardly like he’s spent the past week meditating about it. Interpersonal feelings are Sam’s area. “Why’d you do it?” he says instead.

Cas’s lips part but no sound comes out, and the muscles in his throat work for a moment. Dean battles back the impulse to reach for his hand. At long last Cas says, “You almost died.” And Dean swears violently.

“I’m not gay, Cas,” he says, a little desperately.

“I know that.” And Cas gives him a look that says, _And You’re So Painfully Human_.  “How are you feeling?”

It seems like now that Cas has said what he came here to say, there’s a weight off his shoulders. He doesn’t sit quite so primly on his stool anymore, and he turns his body so that he’s facing Dean, loose, almost relaxed. Rain clings to the ends of his eyelashes, and there’s a drop rolling down the sharp line of his nose. It lands on his lips. Dean wishes he had Cas’s talent for living comfortably in denial.

“I’m fine,” Dean says, and he knows it sounds like he’s being strangled. “Do me a favor?”

Cas waits patiently.

“Don’t run away again.”

“I am not the one who ran away, Dean.” There’s a sharp note of reproof in Cas’s voice now, and it’s a relief. Dean would rather have him angry than passive. Because Cas isn’t the one who should be apologizing now, he’s the one with the kicked-puppy expression and probably no shortage of regrets, and Dean’s been an ass.

“You weren’t here,” he says, and he realizes how petulant he sounds.

“I thought you needed time to sort things out. Clearly you didn’t take advantage of it.” The flush is back in Cas’s cheeks. It looks angry now.

“Cas, I’m sorry,” he chokes.

“Don’t be.” The smile is bitter. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

“Are you leaving again?”

“If you want me to.”

Before he thinks too much about what he’s doing, Dean’s fingers are closing around Cas’s wrist. “I don’t want you to go.”

“Good.”

Kissing him is the only logical next step.

The slide of rainwater over chapped lips is fascinating. Cas tastes like he’s been smoking and maybe drinking a little, and if his skin is cold from the night outside his mouth is _burning_. He gasps into Dean’s mouth and his hands fist in Dean’s collar with violence that betrays him. He slides from his stool to stand between Dean’s knees, and Dean grasps his shoulders to pull him closer, now. It’s awkward and sloppy and their noses bump together wrong, but it’s so unmistakably _Cas_ that it doesn’t really matter.

Cas is carving a pattern in the back of Dean’s neck with his nails. The heat of Cas’s body warms Dean to the core. The hammering of Dean’s heart pounds Cas’s name like a tattoo against his ribs.

This isn’t even the closest they’ve ever been to each other. With a pang Dean understands nothing’s actually changed. For the past few years he and Cas have been fighting the same battles, mourning the same losses, breathing the same air. Cas’s pain runs deep in Dean’s blood and they both know Dean doesn’t fix problems with words. It’s only natural now to pull him closer and pretend this is normal, because it might be the most normal they’ll ever get.

The kiss tastes like salt and they both have the courtesy not to ask which one of them is crying.

It doesn’t last long, but for a long moment they stand, trading breaths. The ache is back in Dean’s chest but it’s slow and sweet, and his throat is tight with emotions Cas’s calm face tells him he doesn’t have to try to explain.

“We okay?” Dean says gruffly.

“Are we?” Cas’s voice is like gravel and it makes Dean’s breath hitch.

“I am if you are.”

Dean lets Cas lead him out of the bar to where the Impala’s parked in the empty lot. In the car only the sound of the heater fills the silence but it’s comfortable now, not weird. As he pulls out of the lot Dean realizes they haven’t fixed a damn thing. They still haven’t found the hideout. They still haven’t gotten rid of Crowley. Sam’s still worried sick, and it’s not like what just happened put an easy name to whatever’s going on between Dean and Cas, not really. But Cas’s hand is warm on his thigh and there’s more peace in this moment than he’s felt in a long time, maybe not even at Lisa’s. It’s satisfaction without being up to his elbows in someone else’s blood, and that has to mean something, doesn’t it?

Cas’s gentle smile gleams at him in the dark, and Dean thinks it must.

The rest will come. 

**Author's Note:**

> Much love, and thanks for reading.  
> This one's for D and G. I'm sorry I don't know how to Dean Winchester.


End file.
